


it's not what fate intended (but it's how it ended up)

by pidgeotto_gunderson



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ...and they were siblings, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Siblings, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Tags will be added, WAIT IS THIS GONNA BE IN THE DRAGONBALL Z TAG NOW, anyway, clone!shiro, find out next time on dragonball z, i try to be really funny in the tags, is there a plot or is it just a trash truck worth of angst?, keith is back w team voltron but dont ask me what season this would be in or anything, notice the lack of a major character death tag tho, that way even if you get no enjoyment from the fic, thats an actual tag wowie, you at least find some amusement in the tags, youre welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pidgeotto_gunderson/pseuds/pidgeotto_gunderson
Summary: Keith has had many moments like this, where, in the span of seconds, his life splits into two parts.This is one of those moments.'Before' is marked by the second when someone calls his name and it sounds like a warning.Keith turns.Someone screams.And Keith realizes three things all at once.One: Shiro tried to kill him just now.Two: Shiro definitely is not Shiro.Three: Lance just saved his life.





	1. every season time dictates that something has to change

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO Y'ALL I'M BACK 
> 
> okay so i'm sorry i haven't posted in a while (a long. long while hAH), it's a combination of writer's block, schoolwork, and college prep stuff (i just finished junior year and uh. good riddance). but i'm still kicking and finally getting back into writing - i'd love to say i've got other fics in the works or something but. i don't. i'm trying here. 
> 
> (i actually do have some original stuff in the early stages but that's not relevant)
> 
> annnyway, enjoy the fic!
> 
> (title from someday by peace)

There is a moment in which time slows.

 

Lance is panting, having shot the last Galra sentry in his sight. There’s a stitch in his side and a cramp in his dominant wrist, but his hands stay steady. The noise, which had been deafening only seconds ago, has stopped. Lance takes a quick survey of the room.

 

All of the Galra sentries are down. No immediate threats stick out, and Lance breathes a sigh of relief.

 

Safe. They’re safe.

 

Lance lowers his bayard.

 

But then -

 

He doesn’t even fully process it. He sees movement and a purple flash and _Keith,_ and his head fills with the sharp clang of alarm bells.

 

Keith has his back turned, oblivious to the imminent peril he is in. Lance has seen exactly how much damage Shiro’s Galra arm can do, and it is clear that, at this angle, the blow will most likely be fatal.

 

In the heat of this moment, time slows.

 

And Lance makes the biggest decision of his life.

 

He sees Keith and he sees danger and he runs. He shouts, “Keith!” but Keith is so very slow in turning.

 

 _I’m not going to make it,_ Lance thinks, and then he makes it.

 

The blow goes straight through his ribs, and white-hot pain cuts through him. He hears screaming, but he’s not sure if it’s him or someone else. He’s not sure about much of anything right now, really.

 

The floor is cold. This is what Lance notes, as he crumples, as sharp, burning, _agonizing_ pain makes him go blind. He can’t feel much past the pain, but there’s blood all over his stomach and there’s blood in his mouth. All he feels is pain, pain, _pain_. His body is no longer real. Reality is no longer clear, no longer comprehensible.

 

The thing is, he’d known something was off. Felt it in his bones that everything was not as it seemed.

 

This, however.

 

This was not what he’d expected.

 

He’d thought, maybe - maybe Shiro wasn’t okay, wasn’t quite himself, but he’d thought it was minor, that it was just the aftermath of his disappearance, the aftermath of being a Galra prisoner yet again. He’d worried, sure, but he’d pushed it to the side, because there were bigger, more urgent things to worry about.

 

Wrong, always wrong. That’s Lance, never consistent on anything but being _wrong._

 

He could’ve prevented this, dammit. He could’ve prevented what could be his own fucking death. Just fucking typical, right?

 

More importantly, though, he could’ve prevented the pain he’s sure Keith will feel when he finally turns around.

 

His grip on consciousness is loosening, but he hears, “Oh my God,” and that’s it, that’s Keith’s voice.

 

The break in his voice is hard to hear, but at least that means he’s alive.

 

He did it.

 

He saved him.

 

He’s absolutely certain that Keith will manage to get out of this alright, because he’s Keith and Keith can face a hundred Galra all by himself and come out with bruises on his ribs and a smile on his face.

 

If he needs a little help sometimes, Lance is happy to oblige.

 

And, well, if he can’t breathe past the ache in his ribs, then that’s perfectly okay.

 

And if the last thing Lance ever feels is Keith’s hands on him, even if it’s just to try to stem the flow of blood from his stomach, well.

 

Lance thinks he’s okay with that, too.

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_Before._

 

Keith has had many moments like this, where, in the span of seconds, his life splits into two parts.

 

_After._

 

This is one of those moments.

 

 _Before_ is marked by the second when someone calls his name and it sounds like a warning.

 

Keith turns.

 

Someone screams.

 

And Keith realizes three things all at once.

 

 _One:_ Shiro tried to kill him just now.

 

 _Two:_ Shiro definitely is  _not Shiro._

 

 _Three:_ Lance just saved his life.

 

These realizations mark _After._ And Keith knows that he will never be the same.

 

“Oh my God,” he hears himself say, and the words are an invitation back to the hell that is his reality.

 

There’s blood. There’s blood and there’s groaning and Keith’s fingers are shaking. He drops to his knees, choking on Lance’s name, yanking his armor off his hands and fumbling to pry Lance’s chestplate off.

 

It’s surreal. Lance’s eyes are fluttering, but his gaze is still settled on Keith. He gives a noise between a gurgle and a cough, and Keith’s head goes fuzzy.

 

Shiro-not-Shiro is still standing a couple feet away.

 

Keith stares up at him with spots in his vision (and wonders what went wrong, here. Brainwashing, perhaps? A clone? He feels like it should matter more to him, but his fingers are coated in Lance’s blood and that comes second to nothing). Shiro-not-Shiro says, “You know, this wasn’t exactly what I was going for.”

 

Keith blinks tears out of his eyes.

 

“But, well, he was quite annoying, anyway.”

 

He’s burning. Anger is bubbling up in his stomach, boiling over into his chest, because Lance’s blood is on his hands and Fake Shiro is _smirking at him._

 

The fight is a blur of clashing metal and red-hot hatred and _pain_ (it’s not his brother, it’s not his brother, it’s _not his brother)._

 

When he comes to, it’s to an unconscious Not-Shiro, a badly injured leg, and a half-dead Lance.

 

He tastes blood in his mouth. His breath shakes. His hands shake. his whole body shakes.

 

He wants nothing more than to close his eyes, count to three, and open them to find that this was all a dream. That he’s on the castleship - or, hell, even with the Blade, if that’s what it takes - and he’s fine and Shiro is Shiro and Lance isn’t dying.

 

_Fuck, he’s dying._

 

The team had all turned their comms off as a safety measure, in case the Galra could hack their comms or something - it’s not normally a concern, but this was meant to be a quick stealth mission, and they didn’t want to take any chances. Which turned out great, all in all.

 

Keith turns his microphone back on and chokes out, “Guys. Guys, I need help.

 

Three voices fill the comm, pound against his skull. Everyone is yelling, asking _what’s wrong, what do you need, are you hurt?_

 

“Shut up!” he yells, with just a little more bite than necessary. His team goes silent. “I - I need - Lance, Lance is hurt, and I need - I need backup.”

 

Lance has gone quiet, in the middle of the room, which makes it all the worse because Lance is never quiet, he’s not supposed to be quiet.

 

Keith’s left leg feels like it’s been snapped in half, but he grits his teeth and - scoots. Uses his hands and his other leg as best he can and drags himself toward Lance.

 

 _“Lance is hurt?”_ Hunk’s voice wavers, over the comm. There’s scuffling noises in the background, blasters being fired. _“What happened, is he okay?”_

 

“I don’t - I don’t know.” Keith’s got about two feet to go. He can do this. “He was - I’m trying to -”

 

He’s not sure what happens, but pain flares up right around his knee and he cries out, tears stinging in the backs of his eyes.

 

 _“Keith! Keith, what the hell is going on?”_ Pidge’s voice, this time.

 

Spots dance in Keith’s vision, but he keeps going anyway. The only coherent thought in his head is _Lance Lance Lance._

 

“I - I need - _fuck_ , just come find me!” Keith bites his bottom lip, _hard_ , to keep from shouting again as he finally drags himself to Lance.

 

Lance’s chest isn’t moving. Keith leans down, weight balanced precariously on one hand, and puts his ear to Lance’s lips.

 

He’s not breathing.

 

Red stains Lance’s armor and Lance’s lips and Keith’s fingers, and _god,_ Keith hates the color red. Red stands for anger and hatred and pain, and red is the color of blood. Red is the color that’s all over the boy in front of him, right now, and he hates it, he hates it, he hates -

 

_Fuck fuck fuck he’s not breathing._

 

Keith doesn’t realize that he’s said this aloud until his comm explodes, frantic voices layering over each other. He drags in a harsh breath that makes his chest ache, nose burning with the metallic scent of blood, and presses his hands - futilely, he thinks, then forces himself not to vomit - to Lance’s wound.

 

“G-guys, guys, Lance, he’s - he’s not breathing, and I don’t - I don’t know what to do.” He can’t carry him, he can’t even stand on his own two feet. “I can’t get him back - back to the c-castle on, on my own, I’m - my leg’s probably broken -” Keith glances down at his right leg, and - okay, that was a mistake. He jerks right back around, hissing in a breath, because his leg is _definitely broken._

 

There are voices, again, in the comm. Keith can’t understand most of it, because there’s too many people talking and his head is fuzzy and everything sounds like static. But he catches the word _help_ and figures someone must be on their way.

 

His vision seems to be going along with his hearing, but Lance’s face is clear in his eyes.

 

He’s still not moving.

 

Keith is a little hysterical and more than a little delirious when he detaches Lance’s helmet and runs his bloodstained fingers through Lance’s hair. He feels tears prickle in the backs of his eyes, because Lance looks _dead,_ but Lance can’t be dead. He can’t.

 

Keith’s fingertips graze Lance’s cheekbones, slide across his nose, run over his mouth. All the while, Lance doesn’t even flinch.

 

“Lance,” Keith says hoarsely. “Wake up. You - come on, you’ve gotta - you’ve gotta just - just wake up.”

 

Lance’s eyes stay shut, ever so lightly.

 

Keith feels like he’s floating. His body is not his. He is not actually living this scene right now, because Lance cannot be dead. Lance is not dead.

 

There’s no way that Lance is dead. Lance is the most alive thing on the castleship, he can’t just _die._

 

But here he is, still as a corpse.

 

“No…” Keith murmurs, and he wants to punch something. He wants to punch something, or cry, or both. He does neither, instead folding his arms haphazardly across Lance’s chest and letting his weight rest there. “No, no, you can’t - Lance, no, you can’t…can’t just…come on, wake up, asshole.”

 

His words are slurring. There are still voices in his comm, but he can’t hear anything over his own pounding heartbeat.

 

“Lance, please, you have to…just wake up. You can’t leave, you can’t die on me like this, come on…”

 

He can’t hold on, either. He’s slipping, sliding into unconsciousness, though he knows he shouldn’t sleep, not now.

 

But if Lance let go, then why can’t he?

 

Keith blacks out just as hurried footsteps come near, Lance’s name forever settled on the tip of his tongue.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Keith gets out of the healing pod in four hours.

 

He stumbles out of the pod and into Hunk’s waiting arms, and the first thing out of his mouth is, “Lance?”

 

Nobody says anything. Or maybe they do, and Keith just can’t hear the words past the cotton in his ears. Hunk’s hands burn holes in Keith’s sides; he jerks away, but then his vision goes double and he sways right back into Hunk’s chest.

 

“Take it easy, man,” someone says.

 

But the healing-pod-haze is slowly clearing, and what happened mere hours ago (it feels like only seconds have passed. A lot can happen in just seconds) is starting to flood back.

 

“Lance,” he rasps again, voice hoarse. “Where’s -”

 

He gets an answer this time, thankfully. Allura’s voice floats over from across the room, and the words are coated in static. “He’s here, Keith. They’re both here. Lance is in a healing pod, and Shiro is still unconscious.”

 

Keith pulls back from Hunk again, standing upright on his own two feet but letting Hunk’s hands remain on his biceps, a cautionary measure. He blinks hard, trying to focus on Allura: there’s still two of her so Keith just picks one to look at.

 

“Is -” He coughs, hating the feeling the healing pods leave him with. Hating the way they make him feel like he’s floating and like he’s been buried six feet underground at the same time. “Is he okay?”

 

The silence is likely only a couple seconds long, but to Keith it feels like hours. His brain is still fuzzy, still feels like he stuck a fork in a toaster, and one single thought is running through his head on a loop.

 

_Please. Please, please, please be okay._

 

He’s not sure what he’ll do if Lance isn’t okay, but he knows it will be good for exactly no one.

 

The silence stretches miles long, then snaps all at once, like a rubber band.

 

“We don’t know yet.”

 

_We don’t know yet._

 

“Lance was in critical condition when we put him in the pod. It - we don’t know just yet if he’ll pull through or not.”

 

_Critical condition. Don’t know if he’ll pull through._

 

Keith takes a deep, shuddering breath. Feeling just steady enough on his feet to walk, he moves toward Allura, Hunk’s grip on his arms sliding off.

 

Lance is pale. It’s the first thing he notices, staring through the glass of the healing pod. The healing suit doesn’t help, nor the harsh, fluorescent light of the pod, in making Lance look any less like a ghost.

 

Keith starts to reach out, to place a hand on the glass, over the spot where he knows Lance’s wound is under the suit, but he catches himself halfway through the motion and lets his arm drop.

 

He does not cry.

 

He does not cry, and he does not scream, and he does not break down.

 

He stands stock-still and stick-straight in front of the pod, hands clenched into tight, tight fists at his sides. There is blood on his fingers, still. Blood in his hair, from when he ran a hand through it, and blood on his forehead, from where he wiped the sweat off his brow. He doesn’t know if its Lance’s or his own.

 

He does not break down.

 

He asks, calmly, levelly, “When will we know if he’s okay?”

 

He can’t tell who answers: “I’m not sure.”

 

No one asks the question - perhaps they see something in his face that makes them wary, or perhaps they just don’t know what to say - but the air is taut with expectation.

 

“Lance saved me,” he forces himself to say, because this is what he has to do. Explain the situation, figure out what to do next. If he doesn’t, he will surely fall apart, and that’s not an option. Not here, not now.

 

“From what?” someone asks. He thinks it’s a female voice, but he can’t be certain of much in this moment.

 

“Shiro.” A collective gasp goes through the room. He hurries to fill in the blanks. “Not - it wasn’t the real Shiro. He’s a clone. Or brainwashed. Or something, I don’t know, but he - it tried to kill me.”

 

Voices. Questions he can’t answer and questions he just doesn’t want to. He tunes it all out and continues, robotically.

 

“Lance jumped in front of me. I was turned around, so I didn’t see, and I probably would’ve died if he - if he hadn’t -” He clears his throat around the words he can’t say, the ones that catch in his throat and make him choke on the feelings he’s trying to suppress; this is the only sign of emotion he’ll allow himself. “You know the rest.”

 

His chest hurts. And his head is starting to pound too.

 

“Are we done here?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer before starting toward the door. He can’t be here, can’t look at Lance’s limp body in the cryopod, can’t bear the smell of blood any longer.

 

A hand on his shoulder tries to stop him, but he jerks, hard and fast, away from it. The touch burns, just like before - he thinks it’s Coran, but he could be wrong. He’s wrong about a lot of things lately - and he needs out, out, _out._

 

He walks out of the room with voices, vague and unclear, yelling after him, fading into nothing. Breaks into a run when he’s out of sight.

 

He strips out of his pod suit with the desperation of someone who will suffocate with it on, then showers in scalding hot water, scrubbing at his skin until it’s raw and the lingering smell of blood has dissipated.

 

He doesn’t quite recognize himself when he looks in the mirror, face pallid, eyes dull, skin burned bright red (red red red), but maybe that’s a good thing.

 

He’s not sure he wants to know just who Keith Kogane is now.

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

His breakdown will be had in private, in the confines of his bedroom, in the dead of the night, when no one is there to talk him down. He will curl up in the corner and sob and sob and sob until there are no tears left. He will try to pull his hair out of his head both because he deserves it (how did he not know Shiro wasn’t Shiro, how did he _not know?_ ) and because he wants to hurt. He will stare and stare at his clean hands and pretend the blood that previously stained them was nothing but his imagination. He will wonder why it isn’t him in the healing pod and berate himself endlessly for how things turned out. He will scream and yell and throw things just to hear them break because he knows that no one will brave the storm that is Keith Kogane.

 

And then, when the morning comes, he will force himself up, off of his cold floor, in the midst of the devastation he created. He will wipe his eyes, cover the marks that his fingernails made in his skin the night before with a jacket the color of pain, and live another day, always suffering in silence and always suffering alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/pidgeottogunderson)


	2. it's hard to catch your eyeline when you're staring into space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello wow this took forever, sorry - i've been busy + writing hasn't exactly come easily lately. my schedule's less hectic now so expect future updates to be faster, but only just. thanks for waiting, hope you enjoy!

When Keith wakes, he’s curled against the wall of his bedroom, an hour and a half later than normal - his usual routine of getting up early to train and shower before everyone else is awake has gone forgotten. 

 

The first thing he notices is that he left his light on - he has to squint, eyes puffy and dry from crying, against the brightness. The second is that his neck and back hurt like hell from sleeping on the floor. The third is that his room is a complete and utter disaster.

 

It’s not like he had much to throw around last night, seeing as his room isn’t exactly decorated and he doesn’t have many personal possessions, but what he does have is strewn across the room like a hurricane came through. He doesn’t remember much of last night, not of his apparent breakdown, at least, and he thinks maybe he doesn’t want to.

 

(He wishes he didn’t remember what happened before this, what led up to this episode. Wishes he could scrub the memories from his brain like he scrubbed the blood from his hands.)

 

Gathering the willpower to push himself upright takes a solid two minutes. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, and just sits there.

 

It’s real. This is actually real.

 

Lance, Shiro, all of it...wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t just some awful, messy, fucked up nightmare that would make him antsy all day but then eventually fade from his mind. It’s real.

 

_ Fuck. _

 

He can still see blood. He’s not sure he’ll ever stop seeing blood.

 

Standing up takes another four minutes or so. He sways, dizzily, to the door, grabbing his jacket on the way out, and walks out of his room before he can change his mind.

 

He goes to breakfast with the team (what’s left of it), despite how much he doesn’t want to speak to anyone, or look at anyone, or be around anyone. 

 

Everything feels wrong. Off-kilter. Like he’s standing, solid on two feet, but a wind he can’t feel is throwing him off balance.

 

There’s a note on the outside of his door - Not-Shiro is locked in a cell, according to Allura. She must not be expecting him at breakfast. He can’t just sit in his room, tempting as it is. He was such a mess last night that he barely slept, and when he did, it was only because he was so incredibly drained that his eyes wouldn’t stay open - hiding from this isn’t going to make it less dizzying. 

 

He considers stopping by the infirmary to see Lance, but then he starts thinking about how pale Lance had been the night before and how long it’d taken to wash the blood off his hands and how the water in the shower had tainted pink and how Lance’s eyes had fluttered and how his chest had stilled and -

 

(He can’t throw up because he hasn’t eaten anything in eighteen hours. But his throat burns with the taste of bile and his stomach burns with the pain of existing.) 

 

So. Not happening.

 

When he walks into the dining room, everyone goes quiet. He surveys the room, standing in the doorway, and notes the weathered looks on his teammates’ faces. They look better than Keith figures he does, but that’s not hard. 

 

They all look surprised to see him, but no one speaks. 

 

Being stared at like he’s a timebomb and the whole room is waiting for him to explode gets old fast, so, voice hoarse but unwavering, Keith croaks out, “‘Morning, guys.”

 

He’s met with blank looks. And he’s entirely too tired to deal with this, so he ignores them and takes his usual seat.

 

(There’s a moment where he glances at the seat next to him, Lance’s seat, and thinks that Lance is just sleeping in. Remembering has him curling his fingers around the arms of his chair and tightening his grip until his hands ache and his knuckles go white.)

 

Pidge is the first to speak. “Hey, Keith. How’d you sleep?”

 

He’d think she was doing this on purpose, if not for the circumstances. 

 

“Fine,” he lies, even though it’s definitely not believable. His tired eyes and sunken cheeks tell a different story. He’s waiting, waiting for someone to bring up Lance, or Shiro, or last night, because he can’t do it. Can’t grind out the words, can’t make the letters and sounds go together the way they’re meant to. Anything else that comes out of his mouth right now will be gibberish. 

 

With no preamble (Keith likes this about Allura, that she doesn’t beat around the bush or sugarcoat things), Allura says, “Keith, we still don’t know if Lance will pull through or not. And, well - as I said in the note I left you, Shiro - I mean, whatever… _ version _ of Shiro is here, he’s secure in a cell. He won’t talk, not to any of us.”

 

He thinks it’s pointed, the way she says  _ not to any of us _ . Like she thinks Not-Shiro will give them all the finger and then sit around and play patty-cake with Keith. 

 

_ I don’t care,  _ he wants to hiss. Not about Lance, of course, because he does care - more than he’d like to admit - but about Not-Shiro, about the  _ thing  _ that pretended to be their friend, pretended to be his brother.

 

A plate of food goo is placed in front of him. He glances up, gives Coran a quick  _ thank you  _ nod, turns away when Coran smiles back at him. 

 

Food goo has never looked more unappetizing, and Keith’s stomach twists at the mere thought of eating anything.

 

It’s quiet for a long time, save for the sound of people eating around him. Keith’s spoon remains on the table. He’s tired, bone-tired, like his limbs are so heavy that they’re dragging him down. 

 

Eventually, Allura pipes up again, yanking Keith out of his dreary-eyed daze. “I think you should talk to Shiro, Keith.”

 

He wants to correct her, can feel the burn of her mistake in the tips of his fingers. Looking her in the eyes is virtually impossible, so he stares down at a tiny crack in the table. Softly, hollowly (but levelly, still), he says to the table, “He tried to kill me. Why would he talk to me?”

 

“He seems to still have all of Shiro’s memories,” Coran explains, who’s seated, now, a few chairs down from Keith. “Perhaps he still feels a semblance, at least, of Shiro’s connection to you.”

 

“And it’s the only option we currently have,” Allura adds. 

 

It’s not, really. Keith is sure of that. For one, since what they need is information, there’s torture. And if not, then there has to be some sort of Altean tech that can help with this. Something,  _ anything _ other than Keith having to be in the same room as Not-Shiro. 

 

He doesn’t bother responding, because, really, what is there to say?

 

“Shiro could have invaluable information for us,” Allura notes. 

 

Keith’s fingernails bite into his palms.

 

“Keith, I understand that you’re hurting -”

 

_ You don’t understand anything. _

 

“- and I know this must be hard for you -”

 

His left eye twitches.  _ Stop it, stop  _ diagnosing  _ me.  _

 

“- but you might be the only one who can get through to Shiro, so -”

 

Keith’s hands slam down on the table. The rattle of the plates on the table goes unnoticed by him as he jerks to his feet and glares hard at Allura. 

 

He’s fuming, seething, and somehow he feels better this way. Like the anger, the real,  _ directed  _ anger has boiled up and overtaken the misery and regret and grief in his system. His head is spinning, but this time, when his vision tinges red, he doesn’t see blood.   


 

Keith opens his mouth to shout, or swear at her, or just scream, but the words come out deathly quiet. “That - that _thing_ that’s locked in a cell is _not_ Shiro. It’s not our teammate, and it’s definitely not my brother. I don’t know what it is - and frankly, I don’t really care - but _do_ _not_ call it ‘Shiro’.”

 

Allura’s face screws up, the bridge of her nose crinkling. “Keith -”

 

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts, and he hates to cave, but, well. Maybe Allura’s right. And even if she’s not, then maybe - maybe looking Not-Shiro in the eyes and telling him to go fuck himself will make him feel better. “I don’t know what you think is going to come out of this, but I’ll talk to him. Alone.”

 

“That might not be -“

 

“I go in alone or I don’t go in at all.”

 

“...Fine.” Allura sighs, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “But the rest of us will be right outside.”

 

“Great.”

 

On his way out, he hears Hunk, who hasn’t spoken since Keith walked into the room. His voice is dull when he says, “He’s right, you know. And upset. Go easy on him.”

 

And he wonders if Hunk is hurting as much as he is.

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
  


Nobody follows him. 

 

They were all still eating, sure, but he expected someone to come after them; honestly, he didn’t think they’d trust him not to go talk to Not-Shiro without them there. He’s not sure what they think will happen if he goes in alone - Not-Shiro is, in fact, locked in a cell. It’s not like he can hurt Keith. If this were any other day, under any other circumstances, he’d likely ignore Allura’s warning, but it’s not. Any other day, that is. Any other circumstances.

 

He’s not sure how long he sits outside the cell room, staring at nothing and replaying last night in his head (he can’t stop thinking about what he could’ve done - kept a closer eye on his teammates during the fight, turned faster,  _ realized sooner _ ), but it feels like hours before someone joins him.

 

“You know, this used to be me,” Pidge says, never the one for small talk. She sits, legs folded underneath her and one of Allura’s old dresses pooled around her knees, next to Keith and bumps his shoulder with hers. It’s oddly comforting. 

 

“Meaning?” Keith asks, even though he knows. 

 

“Sitting around, wondering what could’ve been different. Wondering what I could do after the fact. Hating myself for not knowing how to fix it.” 

 

Keith turns his head to look at her. She’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, mouth set in a sharp line. 

 

He mulls this over for a moment, trying to decide exactly how much they have in common now.

 

A lot, it seems. 

 

He says, “Your brother - he’s with the rebels right now, yeah?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Are you scared? When he’s gone, when he’s on missions, do you worry?”

 

Pidge is quiet for a long minute, then, “Of course, Keith. Whenever he leaves - even when he’s  _ here  _ and I just haven’t bumped into him for a while - I’m terrified of losing him again.”

 

She runs a hand through her hair, pulling it over one shoulder and tangling her fingers in the ends. Her hair’s grown a few inches since he first met her, now hanging just past her shoulders. Keith thinks it makes her look more mature this way, less like the child she is.

 

The silence drags on, but it’s comfortable now. Their knees press together in a quiet sort of support, and the haze in his head clears just a bit. 

 

“Pidge?” he says, voice low (anything above a murmur will pop the little bubble they’ve built around them, erase the false sense of ease he’s clinging to. He needs this, if only for a few more moments).

 

“Hm?”

 

“How come you don’t go by Katie anymore? Why didn’t you ask us to call you Katie after you told us you’re a girl?”

 

He’s been wondering about it for a while. He never wanted to ask, before, didn’t think he was allowed - besides, it never seemed that important in the midst of, well. Everything else. But he’s curious, and somehow this feels like a good time.

 

Pidge is much less fazed than he expected her to be. Maybe someone else has asked her this, already - maybe Keith is late to the party again, slow on the uptake like he always is. Maybe he should’ve asked a long time ago. 

 

“It felt wrong,” she answers, wrapping her arms around her torso. It makes her look small, both in body and in spirit, one of which Keith is all too aware that she isn’t. “I mean, you guys all knew me as Pidge, and it’s - it almost felt like Katie was a different person. I just - I didn’t know how to reconcile who I was, then, with who I am now.”

 

Keith just hums in response - he understands that sentiment, feeling like he’s one person one minute and someone completely different the next (Before; After. Shiro, Lance, blood blood blood,  _ fuck he’s dying) _ .    
  


(His hands are shaking again - is it noticable? He can’t quite tell, so he just tucks his hands under his thighs and pretends he knows how to breathe.)

 

When Pidge speaks again, it’s quiet. Cautious. “Are you okay, Keith?”

 

He turns his head to look at her, and just stares for a while, taking in the curve of her features, the look on her face as she cuts her eyes at him.

 

All he can think about - now,  _ After  _ \- is how much he has to lose, how easily he could lose it, how - how abruptly things can change. Suddenly he’s aware of so much at once, and all he wants to do is memorize his friends’ faces, their smiles, everything about them, just - just in case.

 

Is he okay? 

 

He doesn’t feel okay. Not even a little. 

 

(He still sees Lance’s face, the blood on his chest, the blood on his lips, the blood coating Keith’s fingers, the world falling apart around him -

 

\- stop, stop,  _ stop _ -)   
  


His hands are in his hair before he realizes they’re moving. He leans forward, and, well. He could say yes, tell Pidge he’s fine, but - but Pidge is looking at him with with concern, but decidedly no pity, and who’s going to believe that he’s  _ fine _ , anyway? 

 

“No,” Keith chokes out, fingers raking through his hair, catching in the knots and yanking until they come loose. “No, but I - I’ll be okay, Pidge.”

 

(It goes to show how far he’s come, how much things have changed for him by being here, by being with the people he’s come to consider family. Just a year ago, he would’ve said  _ yeah, of course I’m okay,  _ with no second thoughts.)

 

There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Pidge tucks herself into Keith’s side, drops her head on Keith’s shoulder, and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Keith.”

 

“Don’t -” 

 

_ Don’t what? Don’t try to help? Don’t feel sorry for me, don’t pity me, don’t put this kind of attention on me, don’t make this all about me, it’s not all about me, it’s not just my problem - _

 

“- don’t apologize,” Keith says, and doesn’t elaborate. 

 

He’ll never tell her, or anyone, but the way Pidge says it ( _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry _ ) makes it feel like it’s an  _ only-Keith  _ problem. Which, one, he has way too many of those. And two, it’s not - this doesn’t only affect him. This doesn’t only  _ hurt  _ him.

 

It can’t. He’d never be able to handle it if it did. 

 

Neither of them say another word - after a few moments spent in stuffy, but companionable silence, Pidge slips her hand into Keith’s (it’s so tiny, it’s a fucking marvel), gives a quick squeeze that’s way gentler than anything Keith thought Pidge was capable of, and releases. 

 

He breathes in.

 

(Hushed voices flood the hall, out of Keith’s sight. The others will turn the corner soon, and the bubble of something like comfort that’s surrounded him will burst.)

 

He breathes out. 

 

The team steps into view, and Keith stands, pulling Pidge up by the hand. 

 

He has to do this. It doesn’t matter how much he wishes he were anywhere else, how much he wishes everything would just stop.

 

He has to do this. 

 

“Ready, Keith?” Allura asks.

 

“As I’ll ever be.”

 

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

“Hey, little brother,” is the first thing Not-Shiro says, from where he sits cross-legged in the middle of his cell, when Keith steps into the room.

 

It takes everything Keith has to keep from flinching.

 

(Instead, he takes the skin between his thumb and his index finger in two fingers and pinches as hard as he can. He ignores the amused look Not-Shiro gives him.) 

 

“Don’t,” Keith snaps, staying just inside the room, as far away from Not-Shiro as possible. “You have no leverage here, you’re in no position to - to -”

 

“To what, Keith?” His tone is innocent, but the smug, twisted grin that stretches across the face of the  _ thing  _ in front of him is something he’s never seen on his brother. 

 

Keith focuses on a point just above Not-Shiro’s right shoulder - if he doesn’t look at him, maybe he can pretend it’s not Shiro’s eyes boring into him. “Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice.” 

 

A pause, then a mocking  _ hmm.  _ “You know, things are usually pretty difficult for me, so I think I’ll take the easy way this time around.”

 

Keith doesn’t know what he’d expected, so he’s not surprised but he’s also not  _ not  _ surprised. He also doesn’t quite know what the easy way would be, in comparison to the hard way, so he just...runs with it. 

 

“I have questions,” he says.

 

“Well, I have answers.”

 

The skin between his fingers has gone numb, so he switches to pinching the other hand. “Who are you?”   


 

“I’m Takashi Shirogane, pilot of the black lion and leader of Voltron.” He rattles it off like a prepared speech, like he’s introducing himself to a camera or something. It makes Keith’s stomach turn. 

 

Keith grits his teeth so hard that he can hear them grinding. He’d known this would be like pulling teeth, but  _ damn,  _ it’s barely been three minutes and he’s already considering flinging himself off of the castleship. 

 

“That - that’s great, thanks -” Keith’s voice drips with sarcasm “- but I was thinking more along the line of ‘ _ what  _ are you’?”   


 

“Well, I  _ was _ a Garrison teacher for a while. And then -”   
  


“Are you fucking serious?”   


 

“Ooh, language, Keith, what have I always told you?”

 

_ Patience yields focus,  _ rings in his head. He wants to throttle someone. Possibly himself.

 

He’s ready to snap, irritation boiling up in his chest - you  _ haven’t told me shit  _ \- but he sucks in a sharp, forced breath (pictures a stream of water, flowing steadily down a road. Imagines the flow slowly, gradually easing, ebbing. Trickling out until all that’s left is drops on the road), then lets it whistle out between his teeth.    


 

He’s not sure if he’s surprised or not that the four year old coping mechanism actually still works. 

 

“For the love of -” Keith folds his arms over his chest (hands, shaking. It feels like they never stop anymore). “You are  _ not  _ my brother, okay? Stop trying to act like it.”   


 

Not-Shiro smirks at him, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “You didn’t seem to mind when I replaced your so-called ‘brother’ for months.”   


 

It gets to him, more than it should.  _ So-called ‘brother’.  _ Of course that’s what Not-Shiro goes for, the soft spot he aims for, the cheap shot he takes. It’s exactly the sort of thing that gets in his head, grates at his nerves. Makes his ribs ache, his fingertips buzz with something like indignation. 

 

His stomach is twisted in knots when he says, “You’re not going to be even remotely helpful, are you?”   
  


“Nope.”   


 

This is so off. So  _ entirely  _ off. He has no idea how Not-Shiro managed to play himself off as the real thing if  _ this  _ is who he actually is.    


 

Who is he?   


 

_ What  _ is he?

 

Clone? Brainwashed? Whatever it may be, the Galra did  _ something  _ to Shiro because Keith knows he’s not just some…some  _ traitor _ , there’s no way in hell that Shiro, his Shiro - best friend, mentor, brother, savior - would turn on them.

 

He has to take six deep, measured breaths, count to twenty (twice), and run through the stream exercise to get to the point where instead of snapping -  _ fuck you, asshole  _ \-  he just says, “Okay.”   
  


His legs are stiff and his steps are stilted when he walks out.

 

He brushes past Allura, pulls away from Hunk’s gentle hands, bypasses Pidge’s probing questions, skirts Coran’s concerned gaze, and heads straight to his room.

 

His breathing is too harsh and wobbly and quick for him to answer when someone comes knocking on his door five minutes later. And again in ten. 

 

Keith lets them yell through the door, say their fill, but he doesn’t register a word.

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

When he can’t sleep and gets entirely too tired of his mind spinning, he ends up sitting cross-legged in front of Lance’s pod, staring up at the boy and trying to decide if he believes what people say about coma patients being able to hear you. This isn’t exactly a coma, but, well. It’s close enough.

 

There’s no evidence for it being true, but there’s also no evidence for it being false and he thinks he kind of needs this.

 

He has no idea what to say, but he opens his mouth and out comes, “Fake-Shiro is kind of an asshole.”

 

Imagining Lance’s part-surprised, part-amused look gets him nowhere, so he just keeps talking. “It’s not - that’s not exactly relevant, but I mean,  just - he really is a fucking asshole. It’s - forget the fact that he pretended to be on our side and then - then tried to, to, to -”

 

He cuts himself off, words tumbling, tripping around in his head. Dully finishes, “He’s a dick. Through and through.”

 

He sighs, shifting around on the floor - sticks his left leg out in front of him and keeps his right leg tucked, then hooks his hands around his left foot and leans forward until the stretch pulls at his calf. The knot in his throat loosens, now that he’s doing something physical and has a reason to not look at Lance. 

 

“And it’s - I thought it was gonna be hard to be around him,” Keith continues, “and it  _ is,  _ but I - I figured it’d be hard to stop looking at him like Shiro -  _ our  _ Shiro - but it’s not. Shiro, the real one, he - he’d never talk to me the way that  _ thing  _ does.” 

 

He hates this, hates the stuffy, suffocating feeling he gets when he looks at Lance, hates the constant and never-fading fuzziness in his head. Hates that he’s so completely unprepared for all of this, hates that his hands haven’t fully stopped shaking since -  _ since.  _

 

(The intermittent tremor is stuck now. He’s not sure if it’ll ever go away, that the tension that drums in his body, pulses permanently through his bloodstream, will fade.)

 

The urge to claw at his skin and tear out his hair is bubbling up his throat. He switches feet and leans forward just far enough for it to hurt.

 

“The way that he - that he looked at me…” The words -  _ like I was nothing to him -  _ get lodged in his throat. He breathes in, sets his elbows on the floor; breathes out, leans the tiniest bit farther into the stretch. His nose nearly touches his knee. 

 

The distaste in Shiro’s gaze when he looked at Keith is still clear on the backs on his eyelids. So are both Lance’s bloodied stomach and his red-stained mouth. 

 

Keith glances - just once, quickly - up at Lance, feels his nerves fray even further, and says, “Fuck, I can’t.”

 

Bolting doesn’t exactly make him feel better, but his heartbeat gets steadier for every step he takes away from the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps. i thrive on comments

**Author's Note:**

> couple semi-important things here:
> 
> 1\. if you're still waiting for me to update Breathe Me....don't. i can physically taste my lack of motivation to finish that sorry
> 
> 2\. i don't know how often i'll be updating this. i've got a lot going on w senior year coming up + theatre and the original stuff i'm working on, so it might be a while between updates. it could also be like 2 weeks whO KNOWS
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are always appreciated! <3


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